Green Tea with Honey and Ginseng
by Blooregard Q. Kazoo
Summary: The tea pot was part of his favorite set. It was metal, like everything else on the ship, but lacking the monotony of a plain surface he was so accustomed to seeing.


This story was uploaded some time ago under the same alias, Blooregard Q. Kazoo. However, after several stagnant years of non-updating, I finally took a peak at my stories, and I was horribly disappointed in my writing. I have re-vamped my works, and created a new account as a "fresh start." For those who do not remember, this was the first chapter in what I intended to be a larger work set some time during the first few episodes of "Avatar." However, that project never took off, but I did like the beginning, and managed to salvage what I had written into a one-shot. _Disclaimer: Avatar: The Last Airbender is copyrighted material, this story is in no way affiliated with its owners. _

**GREEN TEA WITH HONEY AND GINSENG**

**A **

**ONE-SHOT**

**By**

**BLOOREGARD Q. KAZOO **

From behind the line of trees it looked like a monster's silhouette bobbing in the stormy water. The waves smashed with a powerful force, causing the bulky frame to moan when one side leaned closer to the water. Buoyancy erected the shape and a large horn slashed at the sky, tearing a hole in the foreboding clouds. The sun slipped from the opening and, illuminating the surface, revealed the monster for what it was: a Fire Nation ship anchored to the sandy bottom with plans of staying until the storm subsided.

As quickly as the sun appeared, it buried itself once more behind rain and thunder.

Inside the navigation room was Prince Zuko, hunched over a map with a stray bit of cloth.

Prince Zuko dabbed the vellum gently, letting the pressure soak up moisture. It was raining again. Thick, heavy drops barreled through the air with such momentum he nearly thought of checking for dents on the ship's surface. He smiled at his display of humor, but a few drops of water from a leaky ceiling washed the smile away.

He quickly fixed the problem with a burst of flame from an index finger. The edge of two ceiling tiles became red-hot and joined together, sealing the gap between them. The coolness from outside and within the small room hardened the metal as quickly as it melted.

His eyes wandered about the map. The off white color was speckled with wet patches, and a purple mountain range bled into a beige desert. As he surveyed the damage, Iroh opened the door behind him. He peeked at Zuko from behind a tray laden with two tea cups and teapot that clinked against each other noisily.

"I have brought hot tea," he said, "to help warm such a cold night."

"I don't want any," came Zuko's sharp reply.

"You never want tea."

Iroh placed the tray between them and sat across from his nephew. He poured himself a cup of green tea with honey and ginseng that gave off a spiraling ribbon of steam. The tea pot was part of his favorite set. It was metal, like everything else on the ship, but lacking the monotony of a plain surface he was so accustomed to seeing. A war ship had no need for frippery, but that never stopped him from bringing an ornate trinket or two. He was silent for a few moments before speaking.

"What have you done to my map, Nephew?"

"I haven't done anything. There was a broken seam in the tiling."

Iroh looked upward to see a silver, rippling streak between two black tiles.

"And what shoddy workmanship you used. You know, if you didn't leave things lying around like a toddler does his toys, you could have preserved the quality of my map. Do you know why I treasure that map so?"

Zuko sighed heavily. If there was one thing he hated more, it was his uncle's repetition.

"Yes, I do. You've told me a million times that large, dangerous beasts, and hostilities between nations, make it dangerous for a cartographer to wander. That is why such an intricate map is a rare find."

"And yet, young Nephew, you never heed my words," Iroh shook his head and took a sip of tea. Zuko opened an adjacent notebook and began to fill out his ship's log.

For a while the only sound between them was the scratching of a calligraphy pen on parchment. When it ran dry he dipped the pen in a small jar and tapped it against the lip to shake off access ink. He continued to write until he felt his uncle's eyes upon his hand. He slowly looked up to find Iroh gazing across his parchment, squinting at the characters roughly scribed in bold, black lines.

"Perhaps we should take some time from your training to practice penmanship."

He slammed the pen down with enough force to send a drop of ink flying from its tip. It ascended before curving downward to land in Iroh's cup, and the darkness bled through the semi-opaque liquid until it turned a light gray.

"Have you come to criticize me, Uncle?"

"No, I came to share some tea and conversation but found a thing or two to criticize on the way," Iroh raised his hand when he saw Zuko open his mouth in protest, "and thought it might help you. There's more to leadership than fighting."

Iroh looked down at his swirling off-colored tea before rising, chair scraping against the metal floor. His steps were heavy in the silence, and he could feel Zuko's eyes upon his back. He turned to face his nephew in the doorway, "Have some tea," he said before disappearing, "your hands will freeze."

For a moment Zuko merely stared at the empty threshold. He bowed his head when the hinges stopped wailing and the hollow thump of the door slamming ceased its reverberation. His uncle was a man of great wisdom, and perhaps this was an attempt at teaching - to let Zuko come face to face with his own anger. But perhaps he was also giving Iroh too much credit, and was simply looking for something that was not there. Iroh might be a man of great wisdom, but it was sometimes hard to tell when he was supposed to be paying attention. Zuko rubbed his temples - a headache formed behind his eyes.

He picked up the pot and poured himself a cup of tea. When he took a sip he could feel the heat traveling down his throat and into his chest. His hands weren't cold anymore after holding the cup. His uncle was right, it did warm a cold night.


End file.
